


Wish I Could Burn With It

by monsterq



Category: Leverage
Genre: Depression, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Polyamory, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterq/pseuds/monsterq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot can take down ten armed and trained bodyguards in less than a minute with his bare hands, but he can't beat his own fucking head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish I Could Burn With It

**Author's Note:**

> This story has explicit descriptions of self-harm and depression, as well as somebody being (accidentally) discovered in the act of self-harm, so be careful.

            Eliot's got that face on again.  They're fresh out of the last con, the shadow of adrenaline still fizzing in Alec's veins, and Eliot's got that face.  Alec feels twitchy just looking at him.

            Cross-legged on the couch, Parker's absorbed in examining a brand new set of lock-picks, and Alec's tapping through some forums with one hand and a quarter of his attention.  Eliot, though—Eliot's pacing like a caged animal, some big cat, maybe, something feral and restless.  If Alec looks at him, he sees the way his muscles bunch and release, frighteningly graceful, his jaw clenched tight, and his eyes shuttered over like flat crystals.  He doesn't look.

            Shifting, Parker recrosses her legs.  Eliot's eyes flick to her, and then away again, as though checking for a threat, for an enemy, for a fight, and Alec can't stand it any longer.

            "Okay, what the hell is up with you?" he asks.

            So it's not the most tactful approach ever.  But he's fresh out of ideas.

            Eliot pauses in his stride, gaze shifting to Alec, and stares at him so long Alec resists the urge to squirm.  It doesn't feel so much like Eliot is looking at him as _evaluating_ him.  It's disconcerting, especially since Alec knows he isn't a threat—not the kind Eliot has in mind right now, anyway.

            In the end Eliot just shakes his head, pushing a strand of hair from his face.  "Nothing," he says, and his voice is low, rough—at least a seven on the growl-o-meter.  Not that Alec's invented a system to analyze Eliot's voice.  Of course not.  Because that would be ridiculous.  And obsessive.

            Eliot is still staring, and Alec doesn't even think he knows it.  He feels like some small, furry animal under the callous, considering gaze of a snake, one with sea-glass blue eyes polished cold like gemstones.

            Okay, clearly he's been reading too much fantasy.

            "Listen, man," he says, "you look—rough.  Anything you want to, like, talk about?  Or whatever?"

            This time, at least, Eliot's eyes snap into focus.  "I said no," he snarls, and turns on his heel.  The door slams shut behind him, hard enough to dent.

            Neither of them says anything for a while.  The buzzing tension in the room is loud enough.

            "He was lying," Parker says finally.  Her voice is matter-of-fact, but her fingers are clenched tight around her ankles.

            "Yeah, I know."  Alec sighs.  "You think he's okay?"

            She shrugs.  "That case really bothered him.  There weren't enough people to beat up to make it okay."

            "Ain't that the truth."  It's been a tough week.  Parker's been edgy and more unpredictable than usual, but better since they finished up, and Alec just wants some brain bleach.  He hadn't realized Eliot was taking it so hard, though.  "What—I mean, do you think we should do something?"

            Parker tilts her head, and rocks forward on the couch.  "I don't know.  I…" she pauses.  When she looks at Alec again, she looks sad.  "I don't know."

 

 

            Eliot walks fast, lengthening his strides.  Maybe if he moves fast enough he'll leave the thoughts behind.

            Stupid idea.  Stupid, useless—

            He rounds a corner and hails a cab, and as it peels away from the curb he curls in on himself and clenches his fists, hard.  His muscles are trembling from the effort of not lashing out.  He keeps his nails too short for them to dig into his skin, but the pressure hurts his bones, the tips of his fingers biting bruises into his palms, and it's not enough, not even close.  He's writing his own way to hell, carving it from clay, and none of it's enough.  He's filthy with his killings, with all the pain he's caused, and he can't even do it right.

            His breathing is trapped in the warren of his throat and he can't feel any of himself, not really.

            The taxi pulls up to his building, and Eliot jumps out almost before it's come to a stop.  He pays the guy with hands that should be too well-trained to shake, half-running up the steps to the door—too hasty, too clumsy.  Impulsive and impatient and incompetent, if any asshole jumped him right now they might even win, and God, he's such a fuck-up. 

            He's too itchy for the elevator, so he takes the stairs two at a time, glaring down anyone who meets his eyes.  When the door of his apartment is finally closed behind him, it's like whatever force is powering him just drains away, leaving him leaning against the wall, sinking slowly to the floor.

            He doesn't feel—there, quite.  Like all his consciousness is buzzing through his skin, the soft tissue wrapped around his bones, but there's nothing in his core, and his body isn't moving how he wants it to.  There's a delay, something missing, and he can't stop his heart from hurling itself against his ribcage.

            The knife's in his hand when he blinks.

            He looks at it.  Not his favorite, but well-made, and beautiful—the way the blade curves, the gleam of the razor edge, the handle fitting against his palm like it belongs there.  Everything feels distant, and he's not sure if he's breathing—not sure of anything, really, except what he needs.

            The cool bite of the blade against the skin is there, suddenly, like the only place he and the world are touching.  Everything is narrowed to that point, the slim edge of pressure and the high, singing note of pain, barely there.  Not enough, and he presses harder, his skin going white around the blade and then, the note crescendoing, it opens up like a flower.  Or like lips parting, and a tongue slipping out to moisten them—the gap beginning to fill with blood.  Yeah, this knife is sharp.  He slides it forward and the canyon opens wider, smooth pale flesh exposed for a moment before it's obscured by the gathering blood.

            The sensation, loud and bright and so, so pure, pushes everything away.  The ugly, tangled filth dissolving from his mind and leaving nothing but perfect, empty space.  He can feel himself rushing back to fill the container of his body, the same way the blood seeps forth to fill the channel he's carved into his flesh—overflowing now, running in rivulets across his skin, and he should do something about that, probably, he should.  He can smell it, metallic and musky, drifting through the air, and he leans his head back.  Closes his eyes. 

            He'll clean himself up in a moment.  Just a moment.

 

 

            The next day, the three of them meet up again for coffee.  They don't have a case, but it's a habit now, warmth beneath their fingers and last night's rain dripping from the awning.  Eliot just takes water today, and Alec forgoes orange soda for a caramel macchiato.  Parker's not thirsty, but when Alec raises his eyebrows at her, she buys a coffee anyway.  They relax more when she's got something in her hands.

            Eliot's quieter than usual, this morning.  He rolls the cup between his hands and stares like it's holding a secret, taking a beat too long to respond when they address him, and every time he looks up his eyes roam over the exits.  Parker doesn't think it's conscious. 

            Alec's taking up the slack now, his speech gaining an almost manic edge, and he's going to blow out soon.  So she sits there, and waits.

            It doesn’t take long.

            It's Alec's desperate face, going all crazy around the eyes, and when she looks at Eliot, nobody's home.  It frightens her; she misses his grumpy face and growly words.  They'll come back, though, she tells herself.  He just gets this way sometimes.  He just does.

            Parker can see Alec working himself up to saying something.  Three, two, one— 

"Look."  And there.  He puts his coffee back down on the table, keeping his fingers wrapped around it like a weapon.  "Eliot—is there anything you want to talk about?"

            Eliot fixes him with a glare.  Something burns in Parker's chest, because it makes him look alive.  "Do I _look_ like I want to talk?"

            Alec shrugs.  "You look like you need to."

            Eliot scowls, and Parker shifts in her chair, tucking her feet in.  Suddenly, she's not sure she wants to be here anymore.  "Look, I'm only going to say this once," says Eliot.  "Stay the fuck out of my business."

            Alec goes quiet, and Parker can't read his expression.  She stares at him for five long breaths, until he looks right back at her and says, "Parker?  Come on, help me out here, girl."

            "Um—" she says, and then decides to go for it.  "Yeah, Hardison's right.  You're acting almost as crazy as me."

            Eliot's face twitches oddly.  "You—I—Parker, it's—come on, guys, do you have to ambush me like this?"

            Parker shrugs.  "Well, you're the big fighter."

            He looks at her, and then away.  "Yeah."

            He doesn’t seem inclined to say anything else, and silence creeps up on them again with quiet feet.  Eliot, after a minute, drains his water and stands.  "Leaving now," he mutters, and strides away. 

From the back, his hair looks soft, like it's just been washed.  Parker thinks about that, because she doesn’t know where else to put her mind.

            After a while Alec sighs, finishes his coffee, and puts his phone down.  "Is it just me, or does this need planning Nathan-style?"

            "We can't bring Nathan in," Parker says.  "We have to do this ourselves."

            "Yeah.  Yeah."  Alec runs his hand over his hair, wraps his fingers around his phone again, and lets go to gesture forcefully.  "We can do that.  We can totally do that, we're not babies.  We got along for years just fine without him, pulled some really difficult shit, we don't need Nate for every little operation.  We have our reputations for a reason."  He bobs his head for emphasis.  "Right?"

            "Right."  She thinks that's the answer he's looking for, at least.

            "Awesome."  He stands up, shoving his phone in his pocket.  "Let's go plan."

 

 

            Things aren't getting better.  The high from the pain wore off too soon, and the ache crept back, bleeding through him, weighing him down.  Maybe it never left; maybe it'll always be there, and all he can do is paint over it, watch it wear away faster than he can lay down each coat.

            No.  No, he can't believe that—it'll wear off, it always does, no matter how permanent it feels.  He just needs to get through this, do whatever he has to long enough for the thoughts, the emptiness to go away.  Eliot doesn't want to die, he _knows_ he doesn't, no matter how much the story changes when the world gets gray.  Even when death starts to look less like doom and more like that last-ditch exit strategy, the one you remind yourself of as the corner gets tighter.

            No.  He's just gotta get through this.  That's all.

            He has a drink, and has another.  After a bit the insides of his brain lose their edges, but they're still crowding him in, dark and heavy, and he needs—he needs.  He can't do this.

            Eliot can take down ten armed and trained bodyguards in less than a minute with his bare hands, but he can't beat his own fucking head.

            Awesome.

            He stands up.   The part of his brain that makes decisions is watching, quiet, distant, as he moves over to his desk and unlocks it.  Takes gauze, antiseptic, some medical tape, lays them down on a table.  Unbuckles a knife—doesn't matter which one—and sits down in a chair.  Taking a deep, shuddery breath, he opens himself up with a clean, white-hot slice.

            There's a sudden thump from right outside his window.

            Eliot freezes.  The blade doesn't jerk against his skin.  He can hear his ears ringing.

            He puts down the knife.  Ignores the blood trickling too fast from the open wound.  Three strides and less than a second take him to the window; in one motion he throws it open, reaches to the side, and yanks someone in.

            It's Parker.

            Her eyes are too wide, her lips pressed tight together: expressionless to anybody else.  He can feel her heart rabbiting through her body, see her eyes flicking fast from his face to his wound and back again, and it takes him a moment—a moment to recognize her, a moment to process, a moment to rein back the part of him that's ready to rip the intruder apart.  In that moment, he's got her slammed up against the wall, his hand at her throat, that icy calm pouring over him like water—and it's good, really good, better than the pain.  A fight is always better than the pain.

            Except for the part where he's hurting someone.

            Except for the part where he's hurting Parker.

            He lets go, stumbles backward.  His blood is smeared over his bicep and forearm, dripped onto the hardwood floor, staining his clothes—staining her, too.  She's got his blood on her.  She's got his blood on her shirt, her hair, her throat.  She's hooked up to a belay cord, leading out the window and up, out of sight, and she won't stop staring.

            Eliot doesn't know quite what he's feeling.  She's ruined it, ruined his high, and the fight, cut off before it got started.  He feels the hot sick flush of shame, and the fear squeezing at his heart, and anger.  Anger tearing at his skin to get out.

            It wins.

            "What are you doing outside my window?"  He takes a step forward; she stands her ground.  But though he's not tall, he knows how to make himself a _presence,_ and—"Were you spying on me?  Were you, Parker?"  He sees something in her hand and grabs it; she doesn't stop him.  "Is this a camera?  Hardison's?  You and him spying on me?"  She doesn't answer, and he slams a hand on the wall by her head.  "Answer me!"

            "I didn't expect this," she says.  Her affect is even flatter than usual.  "This isn't what I expected."

            "Oh yeah?"  He gets closer.  "What did you expect?"

            "I don't know," she says.  "That's what we were trying to find out."

            "We _._ So you two _were_ spying on me."

            She gives him a look that means, _Duh._

"I—" he takes a breath, and it shakes more than he'd like to admit.  The adrenaline is fading, and he doesn't—he couldn't hurt her.  And the blood is still dripping to the floor as he moves, like a trail of macabre breadcrumbs, and he's about to crash.  He knows he is. 

He should eat something.

            He sits.  "He there with you, then?"

            She looks almost shamefaced.  Eliot hadn't known she was capable of shame.  She nods, and motions toward her ear.

            "Right.  Of course."  Has Alec pieced it together?  Is the camera working already?  He's too tired to care.  The weight is gone, and so is the rage, but in its place is the ugly clench of shame.  Of exposure.  He wants her to leave, everyone to leave.  To get far away.  He wonders what the real-estate prospects on the moon are, these days.   Alec could probably figure it out.

            Eliot hears her unclip her harness, and her footsteps padding across the floor.  He doesn't look up.  Into the kitchen, the opening and closing of cupboards, running water, and then back over; she stops in front of him.  A damp paper towel enters his field of vision.  He stares at it blankly for a moment.

            "To clean up," she says.

            "Oh.  Thanks."  He takes it.  Swipes it across the stains and trails on his skin, starting at his hand and working his way upward.  Can't stop staring at the smears, the way it all looks on his skin.  She gets him another one, and by the time he's wiping at the edges of the wound, at the blood still sliding out sluggishly, there are three reddish-brown lumps of tissue, saturated, lined up on the table beside him. 

            "Didn't take you for the nursing type," he says, finally.  Cuts a piece of gauze and swaps it for the towel, rips off some lengths of tape from the roll.  His fingers leave the barest rusty prints along its surface.  Doesn't matter.  He secures the gauze.

            "I'm not," she says.  She's got another piece of tissue and is wiping up the blood dripped on the floor.  "Just, you know."

            He doesn't know.  But he doesn't press.

            When she's done, when he's done, the paper towels tossed in the trash, she just stands there.  She's still got blood on her skin and clothes and hair, and he's not sure if she knows.  Doesn't think she would care if she did.  She says nothing, and he can't meet her eyes.  He needs to change his shirt; the thought flicks idly through his mind.  Maybe he could get the stains out with enough scrubbing.

            "Um," she says eventually.  Her mouth works emptily, and he wonders, with a flash of surrealism, if she's going to apologize.

            "Um," she says again, and shakes her head.  Then she turns, runs on light feet over to the window, clips back in, and tumbles off the ledge with almost childish grace.

            Her face doesn't appear again.  Eliot gets up, waits out the lightheadedness, and goes to stare into his fridge for food.

 

 

            Alec's pacing when Parker comes back.  The moment she enters, he whirls to face her and points an accusing finger.  "What the hell happened to your comm?"

            She shrugs, pulls it out of her pocket, rolls it between her fingers.  "I didn't want to talk when I was coming back.  I had to think."

            "Well, you better be done thinking now," he says, "because I want to know what the fuck happened in there.  What was he doing?  How were you _nursing_?  And what the hell is it that you didn't expect?"

            Parker walks over to the chair he's abandoned and sits in it, perching like a bird, her knees drawn up to her chin.  She's had all the way back to think of how to answer these questions, but now that she's here, feeling his gaze hot and frightened on her face, she doesn't know what to say.  How to say it.

            "Parker!" she hears him say, flat out terrified now.  "What's going on?  What's happening with Eliot?"

            She hears her voice.  "He's hurting himself," she says.

            "He's—oh."  Alec pauses.  Pauses for so long she looks up at him, finally.  He's staring into space.  "Hurting himself how?" he asks finally.  "Like, metaphorical self-destructive stuff, or—"

            "Not metaphorical," she says.  "With a knife."

            "Oh," Alec says again.  He stares at the wall a little longer.  Then he gets up, goes to sit on the table next to the chair she's stolen.  His feet swing like a little kid's.   
"I had a foster sister once who did that," he says.  "A brother too, actually.  Only he used a lighter."  He stares at his hands.  "They always got sent back if someone noticed."  His voice is quiet; he addresses the statement to his palms.

            Parker could add some stories herself.

            She doesn't, though.  Instead, she says, "What're we going to do?"

            Alec's jaw clenches.  He rubs at his chin.  "I don't know.  We can't tell anyone, he'd hate us."

            She nods.  That makes sense; she thinks about how it would feel, and her stomach clenches up.  They can't.  "I think the spying's off, too.  He was really mad."  It's the same kind of deal.  She's not sure if she regrets it, but she knows she can't do it again.

            "Yeah," says Alec.  "I guess we could just…talk to him."

            She makes a face.

            "Not our usual style," Alec agrees.  "But maybe it's the best way.   I mean, what else can we do?  It's not like we can stop him.  If we tried, it'd blow up in our faces."

            That's true enough.  "But he wouldn't listen.  He'll just glare at us and make threats until we go away."

            "We don't give up as easy as most people," Alec says.  "But you've got a point.  We have to come at it different.  Can't make him feel cornered."

            Also true.  A cornered Eliot would tear out their throats with his teeth faster than give anything away.  And then he'd feel bad later, and angst about it.  She hates it when Eliot feels bad.  That's what got them here in the first place.  "So what, then?"

            "So we come at it more subtly."  He sees the expression on her face.  "It's okay, I'll take the lead."

            "Okay."

            "Look, try not to worry," Alec says.  "Think of it this way.  We're just trying to make him feel better, fix his problems.  That's, like, our career path.  We shouldn't have a problem."

            She sighs, and nods.  "Okay," she says again.  "When do we start?"

 

 

            Alec has a feeling Eliot isn't going to meet them for coffee.  So they pre-empt that by inviting themselves over for lunch the next day.

            He calls first, because his Nana raised him right, and takes Eliot's annoyed huff and "Damnit, Hardison," as agreement.  When they knock at his door, he opens it almost right away, a scowl pasted on his face but the apartment cleaner than usual behind him.

            "Hey," Alec says, and beside him Parker nods seriously.  She's got her mission face on—Alec should talk to her about that.  Eliot, after a moment, grumbles "Hey," and stands by to let them pass.

            Alec brought lasagna, because you never go to a dinner party empty-handed, especially if you, well, invited yourself.  This isn't dinner, and it's not exactly a party either, but the rule still stands, right?  And if Eliot can out-cook him blindfolded and sleepwalking, one hand tied behind his back, it's the thought that counts.

            He puts it down in the kitchen and then he and Parker settle awkwardly on the couch.  Eliot doesn't; he's holding his arms stiff like he doesn't know what to do with them and he keeps making aborted attempts at pacing, stopping with a jerk after the two steps.  He won't meet their eyes, and Alec has a sudden, terrifying flash of overprotective parents and their daughter's first boyfriend.  Time to distract.

            "So, man!" he says.  His voice is doing that thing it does, when he's pretending everything's great and it's really, really not.  But he doesn't know how to stop it.  "How's it going?"

            Eliot fixes him with a glare.  "Oh, just hunky-dory," he says.  "My friends are holding some kind of fucking intervention for me, and I gotta stand here waiting for them to quit staring and open their idiot mouths."

            "Hey, this ain't an intervention," Alec protests, at the same time as Parker says, "We're your friends?"

            Eliot just stares at the two of them for a moment, then groans and rubs his hands over his face.  "Can you just get it over with?"

            "I—man, I think you got the wrong idea."  Maybe.  Depending on how you look at it.  "We're not here to like, criticize you.  We just want to help.  Because that's what you do for friends."  He turns to Parker.  "Yeah, we are friends, okay?  You know that, come on."

            "I don't need help," says Eliot.

            "Then we can just hang out.  Look, this is your place, if you wanna kick us out, I'm not gonna try and stop you.  But I brought food, and I was thinking we could play some games.  Or whatever."  He nods at the remote.  "Huh?"

            Eliot's face does a complex series of acrobatics, and then he sighs, shoves his hands in his pockets, and then drops down on the couch between them.  He takes up more space than anyone that small should really be able to, but Alec knows he's just trying to take control.  He gets that.  "Fine," says Eliot.  "Let's do this.  But if you go easy on me, I'll break your arms.  When I beat you, I want to beat you fair."

            "Man, I am going to make you eat those words."

 

            Several hours later, they're all sprawled across the couch, Alec slouched down with his feet propped up, Eliot leaning back, Parker sitting on her feet and resting her head a couple inches from Eliot's shoulder.  The TV is running silently through a repeating montage, and the controllers are scattered on the floor in front of them.

            Alec sighs after a moment, and stretches.  "Teach you to challenge my gaming dominance, huh?"

            "Don't know what you're talking about," Eliot says.  "I obviously kicked your skinny ass."

            "Technically," Parker says, "I beat both of you."

            "Pff," Alec says, but doesn't argue.

            The sun's slanting in sideways, through the same window the camera was meant to be attached to, the same one Parker was discovered dangling outside the day before.  Eliot's plasma TV, the only concession to his wealth, gives up on waiting and switches channels.  Alec can fix that for him.  He will, once this is over with.

            Parker shifts over and drops her head on Eliot's shoulder.  Eliot sputters.  "What're you—"

            "Shhh," she says, reaching a finger up to rest against his lips.  "You move funny when you do that."

            Eliot stares, frozen.  Parker removes her finger from his lips, and Eliot's tongue flicks out to wet them unconsciously. 

            Alec knows it's a dirty trick, but he can't turn down the opportunity to strike.  "Hey," he says, "so I think we should talk about your—your thing."

            Eliot scowls, then smirks.  "Kinky," he says, with an exaggerated leer, but the look in his eyes doesn't match.  It's not anger, either.  It's fear.

            "Come on, man," Alec says.  He's too tired to play.  "You really want us to fuck off, we will.  Just say the word.  But you know that's not going to help anybody."

            "I do," says Eliot.  He scrubs his hands hard over his eyes.  "I don't."

            "Wait, which one is it?" says Parker.  She's still leaning against his shoulder, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

            He shrugs, shakes his head.  "I don't like you guys _pushing_ me about it," he says.  "Like I've done something wrong.  If I want to talk about it, I'll talk about it."

            "Well, do you want to talk about it?" Alec asks.

            "Stop fucking _staring_ at me, will you?"

            Obediently, Alec averts his gaze.  In front of him, a news anchor smiles, ceramic, and gestures.

            Eliot makes an inarticulate noise of frustration.  "It's not that big a goddamn deal, all right?  Everybody has something they do to cope.  It helps me, and I only do it when I need to, and I'm still alive, right?  So it's working."

            Alec shakes his head, but not in disagreement.

            "I mean it," Eliot says.  "You guys shouldn't worry.  I mean, it doesn't even make any _sense._ "  His voice is trapped between a thousand emotions, and he shifts, leaning forward and dislodging Parker.  She makes an unhappy sound.  "I _kill_ people, for fuck's sake.  Other people.  And you guys don't give a shit about that.  And I make one little nick on my own goddamn body, which is mine, by the way, and I can do what I want with it—and you're freaking out."

            "It's not one little nick," Parker says.

            "It is compared to _killing people_!"

            "Man, the people you've killed were bad," Alec says.  "I looked into them myself.  They were bad, bad dudes, and I for one ain't mourning them."

            "Bad dudes, huh?" says Eliot.  "Then what d'you call me?"

            Alec's heart compresses in his chest, like a big hand is reaching in and squeezing it, hard.  He risks a glance to the side and meets Parker's eyes.

            It's her who speaks.  "My friend," she says.

            Eliot doesn't say anything for a long moment, his shoulders gone stiff.  Finally, he comes back with, "That's not—that's got nothing to do with—"

            "Eliot," says Alec.  His voice comes out gentle, careful, and he hates himself for it.  "You're a good guy.  I promise."

            Eliot sucks his lips between his teeth, bites down.  He looks at Alec, and Alec feels the galaxy crumble at the vulnerability in his reddened eyes.

            "I'm a good judge of these things," he says.  His voice is still wrong, like he's coaxing a skittish wild animal closer, but Eliot hasn't strangled him for it yet.  "My Nana always told me so."

            "Oh," says Eliot.

            A minute passes.

            "It's not about the cutting," Parker says suddenly.  Alec startles.  "It's about what the cutting means."

            "What're you talking about?" Eliot asks.  His voice has gone gruff again.  "How the fuck could it not be about the—about that?"

            She shrugs.  "If you were carving in your skin to make a pretty pattern, like a tattoo, that would be different," she says.  "If it were about changing your body.  But it's not.  It's about getting out of your head.  And that means your head is a bad place to be.  And that's the problem."  She looks at Eliot, who looks back.  "What the cutting says about how it feels, up here," she taps her head, "not the cutting itself."

            "Would you—would you stop saying that word," Eliot says.  His hands are knotted together, much more tightly than looks comfortable.  "And anyway, when did you become a fucking therapist?"

            She sighs, stands up, and unsnaps her pants.

            Alec's voice jumps about three octaves when he shrieks, "What the ever-loving fuck are you doing?"

            Eliot tries to say something, but the words appear to be lodged somewhere in his windpipe.

            She ignores them, dropping her pants and turning to face them.  Alec slaps up a hand to cover his eyes, and Eliot twists his head nearly a hundred eighty degrees to stare wildly in the opposite direction.

            She breathes out, an annoyed puff of air.  "Don't be stupid, boys.  Look." 

            They don't, and she says again, more sharply, "Look!"

            Alec uncovers his eyes, slowly, and looks up.  The first thing he registers is that, thank god, her underwear is still on.  The second is the rows of shiny, pinkish-white scars lining her thighs.

            "Oh," says Eliot, somewhere to his left.

            She examines their faces, nods, and pulls her pants back up.  Alec is too shocked to even breathe a sigh of relief.  Buttoning them and throwing herself back down on the couch next to Eliot, she says, "Your head isn't the only one that gets ugly, is all I'm saying."

            "When—uh—when?" Alec asks.

            She shrugs.  "It doesn't matter.  I'm a lot better now, I got help.   I just wanted Eliot to know.  We're all pretty messed up in the head, this team.  You don't have to go it alone."

            Eliot doesn't say anything.  He doesn't really look at her, either, just stares at his hands, hunched over and looking uncharacteristically small.

            "Hey," she says, and bumps him.  He looks at her, and she leans into him again, her body curling against his.  Some of the tension leaves Eliot's posture.

            "Eliot," she says.  "I want to kiss you.  Is that okay?"

He starts up again, and stares at her.  Alec does the same.  " _Parker_?" 

            "I want to kiss both of you," she clarifies.  "But Eliot first.  Okay?"

            "Um—"  Eliot's eyes flick wildly between her, Alec, and the wall, his tongue darting out to wet his lips again.  Then he looks back at her, settles.  "Okay."

            She leans in, her hand braced against the couch on the other of his head.  Their lips touch, their eyes closed, and it's a gentle kiss.  Careful, their lips moving slowly, slightly, like they're feeling each other out.

            Not that Alec is staring, or anything.

            After a long, achingly silent ten seconds, except for the barely-present sound of their cautiously exploring kiss, they separate, Parker looking pleased and Eliot looking star-struck.  A moment passes, and he says, "Wow," his voice sounding much rougher and more debauched than such a chaste kiss should entail.

            Alec tries to say something, but the insides of his throat are stuck together.

            She looks at him anyway, and smiles.  Sliding off Eliot, she walks over and straddles Alec's lap, leaning in.  "Okay?" she asks.

            He nods.

            Her lips are warm and slightly chapped, and she tastes the way she smells; intoxicating.  And like something else, like—like Eliot.  His heart jumps in his chest, and his mouth parts against hers.

            When they separate, damp lips clinging slightly, Alec just breathes for a second, leaning in to her.  He rests his head against the hollow of her throat, and he can feel her breath on the back of his head.  Jesus Christ.

            "Okay," she says again, and moves back.  But it's different this time—not a question.

            When Alec turns his head, Eliot is looking at him.  He's closer than he was before, his hair mussed up and his eyes dark with some indecipherable emotion.

            This is not how Alec expected his afternoon to go, but damn if he doesn't know what he wants.  What he's always wanted.  "Can I?" he asks.

            Eliot nods, the barest dip of his chin.

            His mouth is soft, softer than Parker's, and he tastes like both of them.  Like the three of them, combined.  It makes Alec want to burrow closer, wrap himself in them like a blanket.  Like perfect code.  Like a home, and he wants to never, never leave.

            He doesn't touch the place he knows the wounds are.

            They pull apart.  Parker is there, watching; Alec can feel her warm, small hand against his leg.  "Okay?" she asks.

            Eliot swallows hard.  Alec sees his hand clench convulsively against his cuts.  "I'm not—you can't just fix me this way," he says.  "I'm not going to get better just like that."

            "I know," Parker says.

            "I don't know if I'll ever get better."

            "I think you will," she says, and traces a finger along the lines of his palm.  "But even if you don't, I—we—you know."

            "Seconded," Alec says.  And he means it, means it so hard there's a knot in his throat.  He reaches out to touch their hands.

            Eliot looks up at them, checks their faces almost too fast to catch, and his hand tightens around theirs. 

            "Okay," he says.


End file.
